


Deception and Perfection

by kyrilu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Obsessive Behaviour, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's simple engineering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deception and Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> A remix/AU of my fic [Burn Out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/560963). Which you don't need to read to know what's going on, this is a stand-alone.
> 
> I wrote this as a final contribution to the Loki/Tony fandom before I finally drop into the fiery depths that is Skyfall fandom. (But don't worry! I'll be back.) :D

In the dark of the room, Tony fumbles with the metal parts he had been given. It -- it really fucking sucks, and sometimes he has random flashbacks of _yinsen yinsen yinsen_ and he’s left, breathing, for a few minutes, trying to control himself. But he’s not in a cave, at least; he’s in a black, cold room, with maybe a chance of escape.

“Still attempting to build something, Stark?” a voice says, penetrating the silence. Loki’s back, his arrival invisible and silent, and Tony can’t catch a single glimpse of the god in the gloom, even though he’s using the little patch of light that his arc reactor casts out.

“What do you think?” Tony says, striking two screwdriver tips against each other, and he hears a tiny clang. “Of course I am.”

“In that respect, we are alike, I suppose,” Loki says, and he slides a tray over to Tony, which collides at Tony’s feet.

Tony gingerly reaches down towards the tray, and squints at the food. “Bread...think this mushy stuff is cheese...some kind of meat...and a glass of,” he stops to take a sip, “hey, beer. Thanks.” He downs the beer in one gulp; it’s the only drink he’s drank in hours. (It’s been awhile since he got drunk, honest to god.)

“Happy to oblige,” Loki says wryly.

Silence, for a little while. Tony wonders if he can pick up the sound of exhaling and inhaling that is not his own, but Loki seems to be imperceptible, undetectable. His skin prickles -- it’s unsettling and creepy, even though it’s only been several days. Or a week. He can’t keep track.

Tony concentrates on the alcohol coursing through him, but there’s really not enough to make him properly tipsy. He focuses his mind on other things instead: the number of freckles on Pepper’s wrist, a ring of color circling across her arm; the vintage Captain America t-shirt that Rhodey always used to wear back in college; the moss shade of green that Bruce’s eyes turn, so _alive_ and much deeper than the hue of Loki’s magic, even if it hails the coming of a sort of monster.

“Is it worth asking if you’d ever fucking let me out?” Tony says, a growl creeping into his voice. “Fuck. Kidnapped by a ghost, how wonderful is that?”

“I’m not a ghost, Stark.”

Yeah. He knows. It’s a projection thing of Loki, the real body trapped in an Asgardian cave, stuck with a snake dripping poison and pain all over--

_(Loki had whispered something about earthquakes earlier.)_

\--and Tony knows how this works, it’s simple engineering. If you have a machine that’s out of power, you need power source. Namely: Tony Stark with a shiny light on his chest and Daddy’s super-special magical vibranium and shit.

Tony breaks a piece of the bread with his teeth, chewing carefully. Loki waits for him to finish -- Tony had attempted a hunger strike, once (cutting the source’s backup power, more simple engineering), but--

The bile rises in the back of his throat, bitter, and fuck, he can’t afford to lose his appetite or he’s going to be hungry later. Tony forces himself to continue eating. Chew. Swallow. Bread and cheese, meat and hints of beer lingering in his mouth. He finishes the meal, eventually.

Before Tony can make a snarky comment announcing _my body is ready_ , Loki’s hands are wrapped at his chest, cupping at the arc reactor. Tony muffles a rattling cough, and the blue light begins to leave him.

He can hear Loki’s breathing, now.

 

*

 

“Is this a suit?” Loki asks him the next day, hands feeling at the metal pieces. “Like your Iron Man, that is.” A flutter of touch brushes at Tony’s hands, and Tony shivers, involuntarily, because that bastard is _cold_.

“That would be telling,” Tony says softly.

“Indeed,” Loki says. Tony catches his green eyes glinting in the arc reactor light. “Well. I look forward to it, then.”

A tight smile. “Thanks.”

Then there’s those _hands_ on his neck, and the air around shifts, grows heavy. “You really believe that you can triumph,” Loki breathes, his fingers making patterns on Tony’s throat.

“There’s nothing I can’t do,” Tony says with a fierce grin upon his face. “And you have a thing for my grabbing me like this, don’t you?”

“Mm?”

“You’re going to fucking strangle me one day,” Tony says.

Loki laughs and says, “It is my intention, Stark,” and releases Tony from his grip.

Tony staggers to the ground. His hands go to the metal pieces, clenching around them. _It’s cold_ , he thinks, a sharp contrast to the burning heat of Afghanistan, stumbling outside a cave with barely his own life; truthfully, it’s simply cool, merely a spatter of chills running down his arms -- that’s all. _It’s dark_. But. Well. _Duh._

“I’m stronger,” Loki says, simply. And It’s a little fact that Tony knows because Loki’s projection is solidifying, because that hand on his neck is fucking _freezing_ , because the god doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause because of burning, burning pain.

“We’re going to,” Tony starts to say. He falls silent and says, “ _Again._ Loki.”

“Not going to come out on top, is that right?” Loki murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“Still, Anthony Stark?” Loki asks, and Tony makes out the shape of his smile. “Conviction from a poor metalsmith. Isn’t that quaint.”

He scoffs. “‘Poor,’ my ass.”

_\--conviction--_

Tony remembers the footage of Agent Coulson’s death. All he gets from it is that Phil is a motherfucking badass.

 

 

*

 

Loki leaves.

Tony counts time by Loki’s visits. He guesses that Loki drops by once a day.

But time drags on, and it’s definitely been longer than that this time, and Tony is hungry and his fingers are numb, pawing at the jagged metal. He’s tired. He can’t sleep; he doesn’t know the fuck why, but maybe it’s because he’s used to having _everything_ pulled out of him and then collapsing, exhausted.

He falls into a flashback, and he realizes that this is all a twisted system of favors. You spread your legs (metaphorically speaking) for a god, and he takes what he likes. He’ll keep you alive like a goddamned pet, supply you with the means of escape, and then. Then.

Then you keep hearing the sound of his voice in your ears like a broken fucking record.

Tony swipes a tongue over his dry lips. Got to keep going. Attach these parts to that. And keep waiting for that bastard to show up again.

 

*

 

Tony tries to will himself to sleep by slipping his fingers against the wall, as if it’s the fully wired tech back in his tower, and he can hear JARVIS humming underneath his fingertips. He decides, while he’s at it, how about-- how about the way he’d curl against Pepper, too, how their bodies fit together, and she’d angle her mouth to his ear, her tone usually exasperated and fond and just _Pepper_. How about the way Rhodey whistled to AC/DC while in the car beside Tony, wind rippling against his cheeks, sharp and clear.

Yeah. It’s...nice. Almost.

He still can’t sleep.

He wonders how the stock market’s doing, and this makes him laugh.

Of course, his voice is fucked to hell, so it sounds just like a cough.

 

*

 

He wakes up with his hand to his chest, fingers clenched around the arc reactor, a barrier, and there’s a tray of food next to his tool box. No one’s here.

He tries to pretend that he didn’t blunder his way to the toilet in the corner and heave against the edges, spilling out the newly devoured contents of his stomach as if it hadn’t been there in the first place.

Then a voice says, “Can’t keep your food down, Stark?”

Tony starts, searching, and he finally finds green eyes. “What do you think?” he manages to rasp, and it takes him several attempts to get the words out.

“Your voice,” Loki says, a frown in his voice. “How inconvenient.”

A press of fingers to Tony’s neck, dragging against his pulse. Like a match to wood, there’s a spark, but it’s green, and when Tony speaks, he says, “So you are getting stronger.”

“Scared?”

“Fuck no. And,” Tony adds, “this is the part when you say, _well, you should be._ ” He can make out the shape of Loki’s smirk following his words.

“I assume you missed me, then?” Loki says.

“Please,” Tony scoffs, and then he realizes that Loki’s hand is still on his throat, and he moves to shrug it off. “Be careful with those things. Could strangle someone.”

“Mm. I see,” Loki murmurs, and his fingers dip downwards to trace a circle around Tony’s arc reactor. “It’s just a battle wound, isn’t it, Stark? And you wear it quite proudly.”

Tony doesn’t reply to that. His breath hitches minutely, Jesus _shi_ t, going to have to be Loki’s battery for the umpteenth time. Try again. Think: Pepper, Rhodey, Bruce, even his own fucking father who saved his life, never mind manic gods who try to suck it out of you.

“No,” Loki says gently. “Anthony. Think of me. You’ll be grateful one day, for giving yourself to your god.”

“Like Steve said,” Tony says, and he’s surprised how unflinching he sounds. “You’re not a god. You’re a Norse fucker with daddy and brother issues. If anything, _I’m_ the god. Tony fucking Stark. You know who I am.”

Immediately, Loki hisses, a smooth sound ricocheting around the cell. “Anthony,” he says, and he twists the name like it’s a caress, something said to a lover, but dangerous. And it’s like he _flares_ , green outlining his figure, and Tony sees Loki clearly for the first time in a long time.

“You got a haircut,” he says. He doesn’t say that Loki looks like a viciously beautiful snake when he’s angry. When he’s wrapped around his prey and all ready to strike. Sink his teeth in. Tony bares his own teeth into a dark grin. “Well? Go vampire on me. In the meanwhile, I’ll mentally count sheep.”

He’s really got a death wish. Which would cause a nice change of pace, honestly, instead of all this useless waiting and building, building and waiting. So: one sheep, _baa_ , two sheep, _baa baa._ He uses this encounter to be defiant, whatever may come out of it.

“Me,” Loki says against his chest -- _when the fuck did he get so close?_ \-- like a sullen child. He’s got no sense of personal space, flush against Tony’s arc reactor like a clingy cat, on his fucking knees.

“You’re pathetic,” Tony says, so softly that he’s not sure that Loki heard him. Then he tries to pretend -- so much fucking lying to himself -- that he doesn’t feel a mouth touch to the light, like a blessing. In the place of the mouth, there are hands, next, and Tony’s _gone_ yet again.

 

*

 

Loki leaves him alone for what feels like a long, long time. The trays of food appear when Tony’s asleep, and he’s admittedly relieved. He’s almost finished with his invention, thanks to this long, Loki-less break . He didn’t think he’d have all the parts -- but he can improvise.

_Then you keep hearing the sound of his voice in your ears like a broken fucking record._

Well, there’s his sanity to worry about, but he holds himself in place with distant memories of his mother’s smile, and Pepper’s laughter, and the half-remembered taste of the shitty coffee he and Rhodey used to drink back in college. Whenever he thinks it’s running out, he finds unexpected happiness in his recollections of Bruce and Steve and Barton and Romanoff and Thor, however little he knows about most of them. Bruce he knows best, as a new roommate in the Avengers Tower, of course.

Somedays he can convince himself that he’s back in his lab, squinting over a new invention, but he misses the sound of JARVIS’ voice and the blare of music. Somedays the emotions he associates with Loki arise from beneath Tony’s composure. About trying to save face and fumbling and he’s on the verge of vomiting again.

When Loki does come, he touches Tony’s shoulder lightly, leaning over to see the almost-completed gizmo, and the strange, creeping nausea goes away. Tony holds back the bitter, dry chuckle noise that almost erupts from his throat. He promises himself that it’s nearly over.

 

*

 

Loki’s very solid. Tony knows this once fingers fold back into the space where his arc reactor lies; Loki’s not going to need him, soon. His projection form will become capable of enough magic to break out the real him out of Asgard. Probably causing a substantial amount of trouble on Earth along the way.

“What are you going to do when you’re done with me?” Tony wonders out loud, idly. “Make me cooperate with you? Maybe even kneel? Or are you going to throw me away like a used-up battery? Although I think batteries should be recycled, technically--”

“You’re babbling,” Loki says. Tony can tell that he’s manifestly amused, probably feeling condescendingly familiar today. “Hmm, why that turn of thoughts now? You don’t have to be discarded, Anthony,” there you go, _familiar_ , first name basis, “--you could always join me. I could use your knowledge.”

Tony snorts. “Join your side? Thanks, but no thanks.” He sinks into the room’s lone chair, Loki’s fingers still locked onto his chest, not taking, not yet.

“Are you certain?” Loki murmurs, and Tony realizes, with a jolt, that Loki’s _kneeling_ , or half-kneeling anyway, just so close to his chest, positioned between Tony’s knees. “Ah. What a pity.”

For the second time, Loki kisses Tony’s arc reactor. _Kisses_ , ha -- the word doesn’t quite fit, but it’s close enough to describe whatever the fuck Loki’s doing.

Tony shivers when Loki pulls away. He wonders what the hell is wrong with him -- what the hell is wrong with both of them.

 

*

 

He test-drives his invention later that day. Well, he thinks it’s the same day; it could be the next day for all he knows. But. Keeping track of time using Loki.

He plugs it into his arc reactor and the invention -- which looks basically like a fancy spark plug -- glows so, so bright. The brightest thing that Tony’s ever seen in weeks besides his arc reactor and Loki’s brief outbursts of magic. He has to shield his eyes because the light stings like a bitch, but he knows that it’s done, it’s complete.

 

*

 

“Hey,” he says, when Loki appears the next time. “That was fast.”

Loki flickers a light onto his fingers, so that Tony can see him better. He does this, sometimes, when he doesn’t want their conversation to occur in total darkness -- sometimes, Tony guesses, he wants to hide or be mysterious or whatever crap, and sometimes he doesn’t.

Loki smiles, and it goes to his eyes, mad fucking green eyes, and he says, “Our arrangement is drawing to a close.”

“Yeah, I’ve had the feeling,” Tony says.

“And so I suppose I win, then. You have yet to escape or employ your device there,” Loki continues. “I’m giving you a choice.”

Tony twists a finger in his unkempt hair, hands worrying at the grease. “No,” he says, and swiftly so. “Who the hell do you think I am?”

“You are Anthony Stark,” Loki says with an easy shrug, “and--” He touches Tony’s chest, then, and smiles a little when Tony slants against it, keeping the hand at an angle.

“And?” Tony says, as if Loki hadn’t already made his point.

Loki smirks, an infuriating curve on the edge of his lips. “Choose.”

“I did,” Tony says, and in one fluid movement, he sticks his homemade plug into his arc reactor and into Loki’s skin, and the light’s burning _blue_. Energy siphons from Loki and knocks back inside Tony -- back where it belongs -- and they’re both sent reeling on the floor.

Loki’s gone. A trace of green in the air, like a ghost, and then _gone._

Tony laughs, a high-pitched noise that sounds foreign to his own ears. When he gropes at the place where Loki once stood, he finds a key. He’s surprised about how easy this is.

Somehow, he finds the door and unlocks it. He’s climbing up a staircase, stumbling, stumbling, stumbling into sunlight. He finds his possessions -- his car keys, his sunglasses, his cell phone -- and grasps his trembling fingers around the last.

He dials, hits _call_.

Then he realizes how much the energy has unbalanced him -- _so much blue_ \-- and he feels the black slipping before his eyes, the pull of unconsciousness.

The last thought that comes to him is of the shape of Loki’s smile.


End file.
